Tascas Are the Best Places to Eat in Lisbon, Portugal

You know what a bistro is. If hard-pressed, you could probably define trattoria, too. But how about a tasca? 

That question was on my mind as I ate lunch at Tasca do Gordo (or “Fatty’s Tasca”), a no-frills canteen on Lisbon‘s waterfront. Housed in a windowless concrete building, the interior was just as plain: white tiles, bright lighting, red plastic chairs. But the place was packed with construction guys, office workers, families, and buddies on lunch dates. 

“Tascas are for sustenance, not for opulence,” said the food historian and chef André Magalhães, who is my go-to when I want to learn more about Portuguese cuisine. He was drizzling chili oil over dobrada — tripe braised with white beans and served in a terra-cotta bowl. Between bites, Magalhães gave me a quick lesson on the tasca’s humble beginnings. 

In 1755, he explained, Lisbon was flattened by an earthquake, which was immediately followed by a tsunami. To rebuild, laborers were recruited from Portugal’s far north and Galicia, in northwestern Spain. They came in great numbers. Over time, some of those working as carvoeiros, or charcoal vendors, opened shops that sold wine and, eventually, one-pot dishes, like the tripe and bean stew Magalhães and I were enjoying. And so the tasca was born. 

“Any person who needed to count his pennies would go to a tasca,” he said.

During the 20th century, tascas dotted every neighborhood of Lisbon, serving as affordable lunchrooms for the working class. They also became associated with homestyle Portuguese cooking, using everyday ingredients like salt cod, sardines, and potatoes. In recent decades, as local tastes have expanded and economic forces have squeezed the bottom line, the humble tasca has found itself under threat. But while their numbers have dwindled, a new generation has come to appreciate these unpretentious dining rooms — and is seeking to keep the tradition alive.

I wanted to learn more about these beloved establishments, so I reached out to Ricardo Dias Felner, a Portuguese food writer, who suggested lunch at his local haunt. Adega Solar Minhoto, which is located next to a fire station in Alvalade, a quiet residential area not far from Lisbon’s airport, had clearly been renovated at some point — it now has fake bricks and plastic plants. But it retains classic touches: a dessert case, paper covering the tables, cheeky service, and a handwritten list of the day’s specials.

“Tascas know how to take something cheap and make it tasty,” Felner said as we studied the menu. There was costeleta de novilho no churrasco (grilled beef steak), ensopado de borrego (lamb stew), and choco frito com arroz de feijão (deep-fried cuttlefish with rice and beans). He pointed out that Mercado de Alvalade, a terrific food market, was steps away. “Tascas don’t have a lot of storage, so they go to the market every day,” he said. 

Since that market is known for seafood, we ordered the grilled sardines. I mimicked Felner and tore open a chewy Portuguese roll, topping it with the fish, drizzling it with olive oil, and eating the salty, smoky bundle with my hands. 

On Felner’s suggestion, I next went to A Provinciana, a century-old spot near the historic Rossio train station. With its hanging legs of cured ham, traditional tile work, a scribbled menu taped to the window, and wall of cuckoo clocks, this place had the rustic look down. 

“It’s a traditional establishment, owned by a family,” said my waitress, Carla Fernandes, who wore a bata — a light-blue checked apron that’s practically a standard-issue tasca uniform. Her mother was in the kitchen, and her father was behind the bar. 

I ordered the galinha de cabidela (chicken simmered in chicken blood and rice), a dish that traces its roots to northern Portugal. I paired it with a small pitcher of red wine from Beira Interior, the family’s ancestral homeland, also in the north. Dessert was a slice of white melon known as branco do Ribatejo, which was served with a free shot of a homemade herbal liqueur from an unmarked bottle and a thumbs-up from Carla’s father, Amérigo. “Fixe?” he asked. “Was it cool?” 

Not all family-run tascas are this warm and fuzzy, I came to learn. O Cantinho do Alfredo is a tiny restaurant in the residential neighborhood of Campolide where the standard greeting is a gruff “How many people?” Yet the harried tone and fossilized atmosphere — faded tile floors, creaky fan, dusty bottles — were unlikely precursors for what turned out to be my most delicious tasca meal yet. 

I was joined by Alexandra Prado Coelho, a veteran food writer at Público, one of Portugal’s leading newspapers, who urged me to try a classic dish, iscas à Portuguesa — thin slices of pork liver marinated in white wine, garlic, and bay leaf. The dish emerged from the kitchen looking almost off-puttingly plain: a few ungarnished slices of liver and a couple of boiled potatoes on a stainless-steel platter. But the liver had been seared to perfection in lard and expertly seasoned, so the dish was a triumph of simplicity. 

Things got even better with dessert. We went with peras bêbedas, or peeled pears stewed in red wine, sugar, and cinnamon sticks. The wine reduction imbued the pears with a purple, syrupy sheen, and were tender enough to eat with a spoon. 

Over the blare of a 1990s-era TV mounted in the corner, I asked Prado Coelho about the outlook for tascas. “The real ones are disappearing,” she said. “They used to be in every neighborhood. Now there’s just a few that survive.”

Like the earthquake-tsunami back in 1755, Lisbon is undergoing another seismic shift. The dual forces of tourism and gentrification are ramping up the cost of living, making the city one of the most expensive in Europe in relation to average local salaries. Family-run restaurants are struggling to pay ever-increasing rents, bills, and wages. Yet Prado Coelho expressed some hope that enterprising young chefs were helping to update tascas for the next generation. 

To sample this new breed, I took her lead and went to O Velho Eurico, a buzzy restaurant on a small cobblestoned junction in Mouraria, one of Lisbon’s oldest neighborhoods. I arrived at the tail end of lunch service on a Wednesday, when Zé Paulo Moreira da Rocha, the chef and owner, was prowling the dining room wielding a squirt gun loaded with bagaço, Portugal’s version of grappa. Although this has become something of a ritual at the restaurant, he managed to deliver more booze onto my dining companion’s shirt than into her mouth. 

In 2019, when the 21-year-old Rocha took over O Velho Eurico, the previous owners had one condition: that he keep the establishment’s original name. The son of restaurateurs himself, Rocha opted to retain a few other elements, too, including a tiled mural that depicts the former owner at the grill. But many other things about O Velho Eurico feel thoroughly modern. 

The walls are covered with graffiti, plates are mismatched, and classic dishes like a bacalhau salad are elevated. In the traditional preparation, salt cod is soaked in water and squeezed dry by hand, then served with sliced onions and olive oil. At O Velho Eurico, it took the form of snowy flakes of cod in a rich cod gelatin speckled with green drops of leek-infused olive oil.

Just a short walk away, I found another modern take. “People are not here just to eat — it’s kind of an event,” said Pedro Monteiro, the owner of Tasca Baldracca, as he flitted from table to table pouring shots from a massive green bottle of a homemade fig-leaf liqueur. A native of Brazil who was inspired by the informal, boozy nature of tascas, he encourages his cooks to sit and drink with diners, to “cut the distance between the kitchen and customers.”

The food was more Brazilian than Portuguese, more Tropicália than fado: beef tartare with pastel de vento, a deep-fried Brazilian pastry; a beet salad with a tapioca-based cracker that looked like purple bubble wrap; and grilled cuttlefish with a bright-orange sauce inspired by moqueca, a Brazilian seafood stew. This meal, which packed more color and flair than all my previous outings combined, made me reexamine my idea of what a tasca could be.

After visiting nearly 10 tascas, both classic and new, I thought that I had tasted it all. But that was before I made it to Ofício, a sleek, modern restaurant in Lisbon’s upscale Chiado neighborhood.

I arrived for lunch on a Wednesday, and took a seat among a distinctly un-Portuguese clientele: tables of young tourists and foreign executives. The pastel-blue stools, clubby music, and waiters in graphic T-shirts made it clear that we were no longer in a tasca. The menu, however, told a different tale. 

“Codfish neck,” for example, was based on a traditional tasca dish called meia-desfeita — salt cod mixed with chickpeas and tossed with olive oil, vinegar, chopped onion, garlic, and parsley. At Ofício, the cod was served in a yin-yang pool of two sauces (one made with puréed onions, the other chickpeas) and topped with parsley-infused oil and flakes of black garlic. I paused to take in the artlike composition before swirling it with a piece of crusty bread. It was rich and pleasantly salty, with an aromatic punch of garlic. 

I also ordered the “atypical Portuguese gizzards,” a take on moelas estufadas — a workaday classic of braised chicken gizzards. The meaty tomato sauce was reduced to a silky demiglace, and the dish was topped with dainty microgreens. “It’s like a tasca dish, but how it’s done now is more creative,” said Hugo Candeias, the chef whose obsession with elevating humble Lisbon recipes has earned the restaurant a Michelin Bib Gourmand. “We want to bring the flavor of traditional Portuguese dishes, but not necessarily how they look.”

For dessert, Candeias urged me to try his flan. He presented me with a quivering dome served in a pool of caramel made with Muscat wine. It was velvety smooth, as fragrant as it was sweet. Just like the tasca classic that served as its inspiration, the dish seemed to have one foot in the past, and another stepping into the future. 

Where to Eat

Adega Solar Minhoto: Bridging the gap between tasca and restaurant, this spot in Lisbon’s northern suburbs is beloved for its bitoque, a thin steak served in a garlicky sauce.

A Provinciana: With its hearty dishes, wine barrels, and informal vibe, this could serve as the dictionary definition of tasca.

Cacué: A design-forward interior and rustic cuisine are unlikely bedfellows at this contemporary restaurant in the Saldanha district.

O Cantinho do Alfredo: Navigate the gruff service and no-frills presentation, and you’ll be rewarded with classic tasca dishes like iscas à Portuguesa (seared pork liver).

Ofício: Come to this Chiado restaurant for refined, contemporary cooking that gives a nod to classic Lisbon recipes like moelas estufadas (braised gizzards).

O Velho Eurico: Youthful and bold, but with food that feels firmly rooted in tradition, this restaurant in Mouraria draws a lively crowd.

Tasca Baldracca: In Mouraria, a Brazilian chef takes things in an international direction.

Tasca do Gordo: This bare-bones canteen in Belém is Lisbon’s go-to for dobrada (braised tripe and white beans).

A version of this story first appeared in the December 2024 / January 2025 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline “Happy Meal.”